


Communication is Key

by TheoMiller



Category: Knight & Rogue - Hilari Bell
Genre: Dirty Talk, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-30
Updated: 2015-07-30
Packaged: 2018-04-12 00:47:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4458908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheoMiller/pseuds/TheoMiller
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The title is glib, folks, there's no substance here. Literally no redeeming qualities. It's just smut.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Communication is Key

**Author's Note:**

> This is really not my area, so. Erm. Feedback appreciated?

“Gods, Fisk, you’re pretty like this,” Michael murmurs.

Fisk flicks a curl out of his eyes and grins breathlessly up at him. “I’m making a list of all the embarrassing things you say. Just so you know.”

“Yeah?” says Michael. “I wanna see that list.”

“Yeah,” Fisk says.

Michael gathers Fisk into his arms so he can nibble at the sensitive skin behind his squire’s ear and growls out, “You’ve been committing everything I say about your tight little hole to memory, love? The way I say your name when you’re riding me, how I call you my beautiful boy…”

“Everything,” Fisk says, “everything, Michael.”

“You are, Fisk, you are beautiful, you’re fucking gorgeous, baby, so good for me.”

-

“So I’m thinking we’ll head northwest tomorrow—” Michael breaks off because Fisk is slipping in behind him and wrapping clever fingers around Michael’s wrists to still him. “Fisk.”

“The first time we fucked,” Fisk says, and his voice is pitched low, but Michael can still hear the smirk in his voice, “you held my hands above my head and my knees against my chest and you said, ‘you’re so fucking beautiful, Fisk, you know that?’ and when I shook my head, you kissed my shins and told me I was beautiful with every thrust of your hips.”

“Fisk,” Michael says, trying to turn his head to catch Fisk’s lips with his own, but Fisk bites at his neck and says, “Shhh…

“You fucked my throat raw and pulled at my hair and told me I was the most wonderful thing you’d ever seen, that I was ' _so fuckin’ pretty with your mouth around my cock, Fisk'_.”

Michael’s skin feels warm, too warm, like there’s fire instead of blood in his veins. But he doesn’t say anything, just moans and tips his head back.

“' _We gotta find an inn with a mirror, baby, so you can see how gorgeous you look like this'_ ,” Fisk says, in his more than passable imitation of Michael’s voice. “And then you sucked me off in that barn and you said that all the art you studied at university could stand to learn from how pretty my cock is,” he continues. “And you fucked me slow, on a bed, and told me you loved me, and you said you’d give anything to spend an eternity in bed with me.

“And the next time we had a bed, you said it’s a good thing we don’t sleep in the same bed twice very often, because it’d break from repeated usage. And then, to prove it, you fucked me hard enough to make the bed frame creak.

“And on Calling Night, you bent me over a chair in front of the fire and said I could bring back the sun on my own if I begged sweetly like I do for you. If I moaned for it and whimpered and whispered _I need you_ and _please_ to it like I do on nights when you open me up slow and wait until I’m sobbing with want before you give me your cock.”

Michael is hard, embarrassingly hard, and Fisk’s a warm weight against his back and a vice around his wrist.

“Please, Michael, baby, I need you,” Fisk murmurs, “please, please, fuck me, please…”

And then Michael’s vision goes white, and Fisk chuckles in his ear and holds him close as he comes in his breeches.

“And you say I’m the pretty one,” Fisk says.

Michael slumps against his squire slides his hands down so he can lace their fingers together. “You are,” he says.

Fisk laughs again. “You haven’t seen yourself in a mirror either, babe. Fucking gorgeous when you let go.”

He tightens his grip on Fisk’s hands, then ducks down and twists away so that he can face Fisk. Their arms are all crisscrossed, and they laugh quietly as they drop their hands, and then Michael crowds in against Fisk and presses him back until they stumble and fall to the ground, where Michael kneels over Fisk and pins his arms above his head. “You like it when I hold you down, don’t you?” he says.

Fisk is breathing heavy, his pupils blown wide. “Yeah,” he says. “Like it any way you give me, babe.”

“What do you want, Fisk?” Michael whispers.

“Just you, c’mon, _anything_.”

“I wanna hear you tell me what you want,” he says. “Fucking love your voice, making me come without talking, you’re so damned lovely…”

Fisk clutches at the grass under his hands enough for Michael to hear the roots tearing. “Want you to go slow. Want to _feel_ that you… that you love me. Please?”

“Yeah,” says Michael, with a breathtaking smile. And then he lets go of Fisk’s wrists and tugs Fisk’s shirt up and over his head so he can skim his hands down Fisk’s chest with a quiet reverence.

Fisk doesn’t have many scars, just a few on his hands from knife fights, practically none compared to the canvas of lines on Michael’s skin, but he has moles, and Michael likes to count them, likes to trace constellations between them with his fingertips until Fisk shudders, so he does and Fisk obliges with a full-body shiver and a quiet, punched out noise that sounds a bit like Michael’s name.

Michael slides further down Fisk’s body and unties Fisk’s straining breeches. He pauses, kisses the tip of his squire’s ruddy cock, and then moves on with getting Fisk’s breeches and stockings shoved down and off, so that Fisk is totally naked and Michael is sitting in the V of his legs, still wearing his soiled clothes. “Maybe you should stop wearing clothes around the camp in the summer,” he suggests. “Not in inns, though, I quite like the sight of you sitting on a rumpled bed in my shirt.”

“They smell like you,” Fisk says, and Michael’s entire face shines with joy as he ducks his head to press grateful kisses up Fisk’s thigh.

“You make me so happy,” Michael tells him, and drags a calloused thumb along Fisk’s hipbones and up to where there’s a pudge of skin that Fisk likes to hide. He nibbles and sucks at the spot until there’s a little bloom of colour forming, then does the same on the other side and haphazard on the softer, more easily bruised flesh on the inside of Fisk’s thighs.

Fisk squirms underneath him as he moves closer to where Fisk’s cock is straining against his stomach, but Michael just sits back to admire his work. “My beautiful, beautiful boy,” Michael says.

Hands slide into Michael’s hair, and Fisk is staring at him in an indescribable way, and Michael hooks Fisk’s legs around his own hips and pulls Fisk up so that he has a lapful of the boy. “C’mere, baby,” Michael says, rubbing one hand up and down Fisk’s spine while Fisk’s fingernails dig into the knight’s scalp. Their foreheads are pressed together, Michael watching Fisk’s face, Fisk’s eyes squeezed shut as he rolls his hips forward and ruts against Michael’s clothed chest. Michael’s hand stills on Fisk’s back, and he slips the other one between them so he can wrap it around Fisk’s cock, wet with precome.

“Shh, love, just let go, want to make you feel good.”

Fisk bites his lip as he comes, as he always does, and Michael maneuvers him down to the grass while he’s still pliant. “You’re all gross,” Fisk mumbles.

Michael pinches his ass and gets an indignant yelp. “And whose fault is that, dear squire?”

“Mine,” Fisk grins, self-satisfied. “Mm, go get cleaned up, I wanna use you as a pillow.”

-

“Lady Miranda says we can stay here as long as we want, which I think means a week, considering her impatience and your wanderlust.”

“You know, wandering isn’t the only thing I’m lusting—” Michael began, only to break off and duck when Fisk lobbed balled up stockings at him.

“As I was saying before you interrupted with awful jokes,” said Fisk, “I found us a mirror.”

_fin_


End file.
